


Scorching up the Charlatans

by primeideal



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, Marriage, Misunderstandings, Not-So-Symbolic Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-29 09:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20080102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: Ishim had come to power not through birth or sacred rite, but in blood.





	Scorching up the Charlatans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scribblemyname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scribblemyname/gifts).

Ishim had come to power not through birth or sacred rite, but in blood. Laren of the house of Jead had been an indolent king, breeding dogs and hunting in the forests rather than securing the coasts or filling the silos for harsh winters. Ishim had not sought glory, but his friends and kinsmen grew weary of his boasts. “If you could defend our people better than the prince who has spent his own life preparing for the duty, strike him down! But if you have not the hand, be silent. We will not abide a chatterer.”

He would come to no good end under Laren’s rule, Ishim reasoned. He would starve in the blizzards, or, if he lived to bear sons of his own, see them beset by raiders along the coasts. Better to usurp him, and if the threat of deposal forged a true king in Laren, then at least the land would know strength as well as peace.

Instead the armed men had followed him, had relished the chance to ransack the hedge mazes and kick aside the spoiled pets. Laren fell, and with him the Jead dynasty. And in the rubble of the throne room, Ishim knelt before the priest and accepted the copper crown.

There was much to do that a typical heir would have not had to bother with. The most pressing concern was dealing with the attendants and courtiers who were still loyal to Laren. Some of the elders had served under the previous queen, Laren’s mother Orassa; they had accepted her son’s dullness with sullen pragmatism and quickly pledged themselves to the bolder Ishim. The younger hangers-on were more of a threat. Ishim sent them to defend the coasts, where they could provoke pirates in bars if they were itching for a fight.

Then there was the matter of food. It turned out not to be as simple as “order the farmers to pay their tithe, and they would serve you.” Many bristled that Ishim had earned only the hearts of a small coterie of soldiers, who could bring death but not plan for the future. He had no children, did he? No heirs? What was _his_ stake in the future?

“Beheading one of the field matrons would not be an effective way to make an example, your majesty,” pointed out a newly-appointed duke. “The peasants do not travel far, you see, to discuss these things with one another.”

Which led into the pesky question of the deities. The pantheon had looked kindly on the house of Jead, the priests explained, ever since Korunel the Lord of Fire had taken Orassa’s ancestor Siray for his wife. “And on her he begat Thartin the light-master, she who for a score-and-century strode upon the coasts with the wisdom of the gods and the kindness of the flesh, and Jead was blessed to have her as kinswoman.”

“I see,” said Ishim. The lighthouses along the coasts had stood since Siray’s day, heralding the borders of the kingdom and serving as challenge to any marauders who dared encroach.

“There are no sons nor daughters of Jead to avenge Laren the inglorious,” a priest rambled on, “yet the gods watch still, and they may withhold their favor should you not bind yourselves to them.”

“I worship each moon-turning,” said Ishim.

“That is well for a footsoldier, but it is naught for a king, the first of a new lineage.”

“What would you have me do? Dig a finer grave for Laren, and invite the ever-living to kneel before it?”

The priest almost seemed to smile. “Many centuries now Korunel has lit his widow-candles. You must be wed to him, and grant him your troth.”

“Right gladly!” said Ishim. Yes, he was a king, who wore the copper wreath and sat on the throne where generations of royalty had ruled. But he was still a soldier with a dented shield and a horse that left droppings behind him. His was not an era when gods walked the earth. To stand and say a few words, to let the priests bless him again, was a small price to pay for the trust of the common people.

Besides, it would have to be less of an ordeal than seeking out a noble wife.

* * *

In the homelands of the pirates, Ishim had heard, they burned their dead. The ground was too cold and stiff, and the casualties of violence too many, to dig graves, so they mounted driftwood and discarded limbs high to form a pyre, and then they deposited corpses in all their finery.

That was what he thought of when he saw the grand fire outside the palace, that was meant to represent Korunel’s dwelling-place among mortals. There were not many gathered, besides a few priests and a few of Orassa’s stalwarts. He’d attended larger weddings—when General Chir had taken his husband, the entire division had come, and they’d had better food and drink afterwards too. The priests would prepare nothing for the so-called feast than food that had sat too long in the fire, so Korunel could bless it.

Ishim knelt before the fire, reciting the vows they had practiced. “In the darkness and in the light, in feast and in drought, in war and in peace, you shall I honor above all others, and so shall all those who follow after me. I ask you to sharpen the swords and fill the hearths of all who dwell within this land, now and into the future unknown.”

He rose, trying not to breathe in too much smoke. The priest chanted over him: “Let it be acclaimed from the hills to the shores that Ishim our king is the groom of Korunel who is ever-living and ever-changing, and none other shall there be through the earthly days of Ishim and his kindred. Honor be to our king, who Korunel delights to take as husband.”

The nobles knelt before Ishim, again, and he almost had to laugh at the absurdity of it. There they were, accepting his might, as if they had not seen his power with a sword and his skill on his mount! Yet they would tell their peers, who would tell their not-quite-peers, and word would spread that he was affirmed by the priests. It was not as fast or as enjoyable as conquest, but there were many duties of a king.

* * *

That night, as every night, Ishim retreated to the chambers that had once been Laren’s. His menservants kept guard down the hall, and rich tapestries bedecked the stone walls. Ishim pulled back the canopy that draped over his bed, and found that the bed was engulfed in flames.

He turned to run, but could not take his eyes from the fire. And as he stared, he saw that his bedclothes were not consumed. The fire was no earthly light. It overpowered everything it touched, but did not destroy it.

“What enchantment is this?” he demanded.

“The most ancient,” came a voice that was more sung than spoken, that issued from no mouth. “That came before human rite.”

“What are you?” Ishim said.

“I am Korunel,” spoke the fire, “whom you have wed, and I am here to claim my own.”

How could it be? A god who walked the earth with no feet nor face? The subjects Ishim had worked so hard to rule would mock him as a madman if he fled and raved of the vision. Yet it was real, he felt, realer than any prayer or curse uttered by mortal lips.

“I am Korunel,” it repeated, “father of the dawn, forge of each thing made new. Who would be illuminated by my hand?”

“Ishim, king among men.” What was he supposed to say? He had not been prepared for anything resembling this; if a priest had told him with earnest voice that he would need to answer to a living fire, he might have had their head. “And still a soldier who seeks justice.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Korunel, for he rippled from orange to red and yellow and blue and back again. “I am Korunel, the torch who is passed from mother to daughter, from host to guest. Who would be fed from my bounty?”

“Ishim, first of my line.” He spoke a hint more boldly. What was the worst it could do to him—devour him along with his bedchamber? The nobles would crown another king. If there was anything they knew how to do, it was that. “The first of many, if your blessing endures.”

Sparks flew up from the flame and passed through the canopy, through the roof of the castle, into the sky. “I am Korunel, the gate of time, who devours all that breathe. Who would surrender to my embrace?”

“Ishim, usurper and killer.” He faced the fire and it burned like the sun, but knew it meant no harm. “And the first servant of the land.”

“Then know me, beloved Ishim, and in turn be known.”

Korunel was surrounding him, within him, ravaging him, and he was overcome with pain and ecstasy.

* * *

Ishim woke to the light scent of smoke in the air. Within the darkness of his canopy, all was still.

He washed himself, brushing away flecks of ash that dotted his legs. The god, he was certain, did not mind. If he needed to mark Ishim once again, or many times over, it was easily within his power to find him.

As he prepared for the tedious business of state—settling petty boundary disputes, signing permits for merchants to dispense fine ale, proclaiming clemency to malcontents—he thought of his young niece. Birne was hardly large enough to grasp a sword, yet if he had no child, she would be queen after him. And he was certain Korunel would not look kindly on him siring an heir out of human wedlock.

Well, she would just have to contend with a deity for an uncle and guardian. There were peskier dynasties.

At last, he was at his leisure for the evening, and he quickly made his way to the palace chapel. The priest looked startled to have him visit between moon-turnings, but his sudden piety was not her concern.

“Did you know?” he asked.

“Know what?”

“What my marriage would entail.”

She shrugged. “What may transpire once in a century or three is a mystery too profound for common people to behold.”

“I am no longer a common person,” said Ishim.

“Surely not, your highness.”

“So you do not know if he will return?”

“If who will return?”

“Never mind,” he said, returning to stew on his throne. But his anger dissolved as he walked on; he would be king for years, decades surely, and do great things for the realm that would fill many histories. Birne and her heirs would have no need to know all the secret things that passed between him and his husband.

And if Korunel deigned to visit him again, well, what of it? Ishim was ready to bear any burden for the kingdom—and accept any blessing as his rightful reward.


End file.
